


Monsoon

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: (alt title: Iron Bull Confronts His Trauma), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Seheron (Dragon Age), The Qun (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29407041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: Bull reluctantly returns to Seheron, with Fenris along to watch his back. He’s changed since he left the island; but maybe he hasn’t changed enough.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out about something else and then changed as I planned it, so the structure is kinda fucked up. Oh well! It is mostly about Iron Bull, although Fenris and Krem have major parts to play. This is post-Inquisition. Why are Fenris and Bull friends??? Because I want them to be thats why  
> I’m in year 3 of 4 of residency and haven’t read a book in at least that long so this is rough LMAO but this story has been living in my head rent free so here it is

“Say that again?” Bull asks. Not because he misheard. He’s buying time to swallow the acid fury that burns in the back of his throat like bile and threatens to spew out all over the war room table.

Leliana gives him a little roll of her eyes. She knows how he feels about Seheron and doesn’t have time for it. Thinks she knows. “The Qunari foothold there has grown too strong. They’re turning the island into a staging ground from which to invade the north. Their fleets are scouting as far south as the Marches. We can’t let them dig in any further.”

He’s the cool head in the room. Supposed to be. But it doesn’t matter that it’s been twelve years. He’s thinking of the jungle again, the thick, waxy leaves that glide over his skin, the grit of sand under his feet, the sharp smell of sweat. “No. You get your people out of there and you stay out. That’s the best thing you can do right now.”

Leliana rubs her forehead. “Perhaps I am not being clear. The Qunari threat is imminent. They have tilted the balance of power in their favor—“

“That haven’t _tilted_ anything!” Bull interrupts. Hadn't meant to raise his voice but it fills the dimly lit room. “They’ve been at war with the Vints for almost two hundred years! Nothing changes! The Vints’ll come up with some new magic crap to kill us all and we’ll all go back to fighting like dogs for every square inch of land!”

Leliana watches him evenly. “I’ll assume you won’t be joining the Seheron assignment, then.”

“No,” Bull says. “And I know you’re not stupid enough to send a bunch of Fereldans up there and expect them to live for more than two days.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the dangers.” She taps her lip absently and gazes down at her map of the island.

Bull hadn't bothered looking at it when he came in because nothing in the world could get him to go back to that damn place. But it snags his eye on the way out, as a nail catching cloth. Just like he thought. It looks exactly the fucking same.

——

Fenris snarls in something between frustration and pain and Bull whirls to find him but all he finds is jungle, geysers of ferns and thick curtains of vines that smother his vision.

A whisper of leaves on his blind side. He spins again and sweeps with the spear. It pushes the guy back and they face each other, one and one. The guy is Tevinter special forces; Bull knows the look well, the clothes in brown and jungle-green, the calculating eyes. Can he do this again? Kill the special forces guy, get to Fenris, make sure they both live? His back and legs ache, and his limbs are heavy and slow.

He’s fucking tired.

The special forces guy attacks—no, feints, which Bull falls for but not long enough for the Vint’s blade to connect. He doesn’t use spears much—don’t have the weight he likes, but they’re a much more agile weapon than a greatsword or maul and that’s more important when there are Vints crawling out of the leaf cover or slithering down from the trees without any warning. Damn, it’s hard to see. The sun hasn’t been up long and leaves the size of men cast green-brown smudges of shadow into the jungle.

Fenris is fine, probably. Bull needs to deal with this one first.

The guy feints again. It works again. He’s fucking tired. Three decades of muscle memory take over and the butt of the spear rotates down, knocking the Vint’s blade off-course. His armor does the rest and disperses the force of the blow, transmitting it to the flesh underneath, the meat over his ribs. Fuck, that hurts. He flicks the spear-haft, hooking it behind the Vint’s knee. A bare second of a waver—his eye picks out the shift in weight and the rest of him reacts, the ball of his foot swiveling on the soft, decaying leaves.

His palm smashes into the Vint’s nose. There’s a meaty _crack_ and a sharp give under his hand. A gush of blood splatters onto the ground like the spits of rain that used to herald a monsoon. He kills the man and heads toward Fenris.

That’s the problem the Vints could never solve. They’re quick and clever. They move through the jungle easier than Qunari do. But he’s big. They’d have to hit him five or six times to bring him down. Maybe more. He only has to hit them once.

Fenris is done by the time Bull arrives, but his armor is off-kilter and lists to one side. _“Venhedis,”_ he grumbles. His fingers pick at the leather strap at his shoulder—what’s left of it, the strap sliced nearly in two.

Bull steps over the Tevinter corpse and leans in to inspect the split. “We gotta fix that.”

“We don’t have time.”

“We have time for this.” Bull lifts the reinforced leather plate that once covered Fenris’s shoulderblade. It sports a proud gash that, were the armor not there, would have struck Fenris’s shoulder instead. “They get you at all?”

“Barely,” he mutters.

“Come on, sit down.” Bull gestures at the carpet of leaves.

They’re supplied for a five-day journey and besides Bull always carries a needle and thread and twine. Fenris works at the damaged armor while Bull sits behind him and does the shoulder. There’s a shallow wound there, and he reapproximates the edges with care, popping the curved needle into the skin and guiding it through to the wound. Under his fingers the muscle tenses but Fenris does not complain. Only three stitches—the armor did its job. He’s almost tied off the thread when the lyrium brands flare bright and a shiver runs through Fenris’s body. The thread yanks taut and Fenris grasps at it, fingers tight against his own skin.

Bull ties it off and snaps it. “You doing okay?”

Fenris nods at the corpse on the ground. Her back rests against Bull’s thigh. “She was another mage.”

“They really mess you up, huh?”

“Blood mages, yes. My brands react poorly.”

Bull doesn’t reply. It doesn’t bother him as much. Blood mages were never all that good at dealing with Qunari.

“I’m finished,” Fenris says. “Let’s continue on.”

Bull climbs to his feet and stretches the bad knee. He’d much rather stop and rest. Not as young as he once was. His body is slowing with the exhaustion, and his senses have started to dull. But Krem is waiting for him, so they have to move on.

——

When Bull finds Krem’s room locked he seriously considers breaking the door down for a good five seconds before raising his fist and hammering on it instead.

After a brief silence the lock clicks and Krem appears in the crack. The gap hovers at about three inches, which Bull is having none of, and he puts his shoulder on the wood and shoves. Krem is strong but not that strong, and he doesn’t resist, allowing Bull inside.

His pack is on the bed, stuffed with supplies. “Going somewhere?” Bull growls.

“Mission for the Inquisition,” Krem replies. “Left you a note.”

“Yeah, I read it. Seems you forgot to mention the mission is in Seheron.”

Krem is silent for a moment. “Leliana tell you?”

“No, actually. I just thought about it for two seconds.” Bull counts on the fingers of his mangled hand. “First, she couldn’t convince the most experienced vet, so she decided to go with the next best thing—“

“I was there for _fifteen months—“_

“—and second, you didn’t have the fucking _spine_ to tell me to my face. Couldn’t even put it in the note.”

“Because I knew you’d get your knickers all bunched up! And it looks like I was right!”

“You’re not going.” Bull jerks his head. “You can unpack your bags.”

“I am going,” Krem shoots back. “It’s my choice and I’ve made it.”

Bull decides not to tackle that one yet. Doesn’t like the thought of pulling rank. “What the fuck do you think you’re going to accomplish? Going up there?”

“Leliana must have told you. The Qunari are digging in, and it’s not just Seheron. They’ve got their eyes on the north.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“We can’t just sit by!” Krem flings a hand out. “You know better than me what kinds of weapons they’ve got!”

“Yeah, I know.” Not that he made much use of them. Other units played with the toys. He was never interested. “And it’s Tevinter’s problem. Not ours.”

“What if Tevinter can’t hold them off this time?”

Bull snorts, then laughs, incredulous. _“This_ time? Vints have been holding us back for two hundred years. Like a dog that’s got our ankle and won’t fucking let go.” He gestures, impatient. “I don’t know what Leliana thought she was going to achieve getting the Inquisition mixed up in this crap. And you’re not gonna dig ‘em in deeper. You’re staying here.”

“No, I’m not,” Krem says quietly.

It’s his own fault, Bull realizes all of a sudden. Always too painful to talk about so he never did. Didn’t want the Chargers to know that part of him. To look at his grin and realize how many lies it’s told. Krem was a sailor and a foot soldier—he killed with his blade, simple and clean. He never killed with poison, or smoke, or starvation. With words.

“Can you move? I need to stop by the kitchens,” Krem says. His face is stone.

Bull tries the only thing left. All he can think of. “Krem. I’m asking you to trust me. Seheron is…it’s not a good place to be. You think someone’s got your back, you turn around and they’re gone and you don’t know why…” He struggles to explain it. “I was there for a long time. You shouldn’t go.”

Krem’s truculence abates for the briefest moment. “I’m not eighteen anymore,” he says, before his face hardens again. “Now would you _please_ move.”

Too late. He fucked it up and Krem’s right—it’s his choice, and Bull’s not about to tie him up and lock him in his room to keep him here. Bull stands aside and Krem brushes past, bag on his back.

“Be careful,” Bull says. Krem doesn’t reply, only turns the corner and disappears.

——

“Fuck off,” he snarls, his knees indenting the soil beneath them, as he wills his muscles to work. It’s hard. He’s very tired. The mage’s hands are outstretched, and the air shimmers before her. Bull is eminently familiar with force magic and doesn’t like it much. In his experience it’s possible to break out of, if he’s lucky and the mage isn’t that strong. This one is pretty strong. Unfortunate, because she’s got a friend and he and his long knife are getting closer. Bull’s muscles tense and strain like he’s trying to lift a mountain, so much that his joints scream under the stress, his shoulders and elbows, his spine.

Then the spell breaks and Bull grasps the spear and swipes messily from his knees. It’s way off-target but keeps the knife-wielder away long enough for him to get to his feet.

It’s Fenris, and Bull is, for the tenth time, deeply grateful he came along on this shitshow of a mission. The mage is trying to cage him up as well but his brands glow bright and he struggles forward. A nice trick, and one that Bull can’t watch as he’s quickly occupied by the knife-wielder. The guy’s range is much shorter than Bull’s, but he’s a lot faster; they circle each other a moment, searching for openings. He’ll go to the blind side, obviously. Unless he doesn’t. Some of these special forces guys know what they’re doing.

Then it doesn’t matter because he freezes and his body contorts in an unnatural pose, his arms pulled in to his chest, fingers bent back. Bull knows what that means and so does Fenris, because they both manage to take a step toward the mage before blood explodes out of the man’s body and wraps them up in unnatural chains.

Fenris cries out, and the blaze of lyrium-blue lights up the green jungle dusk. Bull’s eye searches the trees as the shadows flee. Two corpses behind Fenris. Then it’s only the mage left. All right. Fenris is on the ground, lacking now even the strength to fight the deep red ribbons that flow over his body. The brands flicker and flare in a pattern that can’t be intentional. Then Bull is on his own. It’s fine. The mage must know she’s failed, resorting to blood magic against a Qunari who still wants to kill her. The Vints try not to use it against Qunari. The results can be…unpredictable.

Bull tests the red chains that strangle his limbs. Hurts like fuck, that’s for sure. Feels like his skin is burning off. But he can move if he tries, and he advances haltingly, the magic digging furrows into his skin through the armor. The mage looks up with fear in her eyes. Her blood doesn’t resonate with his. She’s not Qunari.

Then she gets smart and the chains of blood vanish, only to be replaced by a shimmering vise that folds around Bull’s body. Force magic again. Fuck. He grunts as the vise tightens and his armor clamps down against his ribcage, squeezing the air from his lungs. But he needs the breath and sucks in what he can, gasps out, “You’re alone, Vint.” Another strained breath. “I’m gonna kill you.”

The mage grimaces in concentration and reinforces the spell. Feels like his torso is about to explode. There’s a _pop_ from his armor as one of the plates snaps, crushed against his body. An uneven creak, and more popping sounds as the armor deforms and breaks. His ribs are next.

The ploy works, barely; Fenris manages to drag himself off the jungle floor, although his blade remains on the leaves and instead a spectral hand plunges through the mage’s chest. The woman lets out an ugly whine and sags, then collapses. But so does Fenris, his arm still stuck in her chest.

Bull staggers forward when the spell breaks and doesn’t have the energy to stay on his feet. Instead he crashes to his knees and crawls over. Even his untrained eye can tell that something’s fucked up with the lyrium. Its otherworldly glow roils and seethes, illuminating the shadowed trees with a veil of light. Like they’re all underwater. It would be beautiful if magic didn’t make him nervous and it weren’t fucking Fenris up so bad. His arm is still stuck in the mage—it flickers ghostly blue for a half-second before reappearing as it is, armored and covered in gore. Bull grabs Fenris’s shoulder and tries to put the shuddering groan of pain from his head as he drags the corpse off, shoving it to one side.

Fenris clutches his arm with gritted teeth, swallowing a choked noise. “We gotta move,” Bull says. “You need me to carry you?”

Fenris’s green eyes slit open, and he begins to push himself off the ground. “No.”

He rises slowly. Bull helps without asking, earning himself a glare. Doesn’t matter. They have to get away from the scene of the fight in case reinforcements show up, and they don’t have time to stop, anyway. The sweep is happening tomorrow.

——

Bull grasps the wooden table edge so hard he thinks it might snap in his hands.

“The Qunari are moving even more quickly than we had anticipated,” Leliana continues. “Than anyone had anticipated. Thus Minrathous’s change of plans.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Bull says. “You left Krem in the path of a Tevinter attack that he knows nothing about, and your next scheduled check-in won’t be until after they’ve already gutted him and left his corpse lying in the dirt for the animals to eat.” His arms tremble with the tension of the grip. His knuckles hurt. “And your _‘force’_ —“ he makes his derision clear— “is so fucking underdeveloped that you don’t have anyone who can be counted on to cross Seheron in four days or less with a warning. Except for me.”

Leliana runs the quill between her fingers. Nervous tic. The quill is frayed and falling apart. “Maintaining the alliance with the Seheron elves is _good_ for Tevinter. It makes no sense that they’d break it now.”

“Haven’t spent much time up north, huh?” he growls. “Vints do a lotta crap that doesn’t make sense. And they don’t like sharing. Especially with elves.”

“Regardless,” Leliana continues briskly. “The fact remains—“

“Yeah, I’m going.” He releases the table before he snaps it in half by accident. Here to Seheron by sea is seven or eight days. The dreadnoughts blockade the cove and the western coast, so he'll have to land on the southern shore and go the rest of the way by foot. Four or five days to make that much distance through largely Tevinter territory won't be easy, but it's doable. He can reach Krem before the attack. “You got horses ready? A ship?”

If the answer’s not yes he thinks he might just snap the table in half anyway. But Leliana nods. “Horses are supplied and waiting at the gate. The Gherlen is docked in Jader, she can set sail as soon as you arrive.”

Bull is halfway out the room but pauses and turns, just for a second. “We’re not done with this,” he tells her. Then he’s gone.

He kicks the door of the Herald’s Rest open with more force than he’d intended, but the stormy look on his face dissuades questions. Good, because he’s in no mood to talk. Except Skinner doesn’t get the fucking hint, or she does and pushes through anyway. “Everything all right, chief?” she asks, falling in step behind him.

“No,” he says tersely. “Leaving for a few days. Weeks.”

She halts for a half-second, then catches up. “What? Where?”

“Gonna go get Krem. Back soon.”

He squeezes her out on the stairs, and she dogs his heels instead. “Well—why don’t we come with you? We’ll all get him together.”

Bull spins and Skinner shrinks away with the speed of it. _“No.”_ He jabs a finger at her. “You are not going to Seheron. No one else is going to fucking Seheron. Only me. Just don’t fuck anything up while I’m away.”

Her face creases in affront. Fair, because he just insulted her and hopes it’ll keep her off his ass. He turns again and stomps up the stairs to his room.

The packing can’t be rushed—the right clothing for the climate, the right boots for the terrain, the right armor for the opposition he’ll face. Extra canteens, salve that repels insects. Hasn’t had much use for it this far south and he has to dig around to find it. It was good in Tevinter, when they had jobs up there, and he had to buy more locally—made from the citron trees that grow in the north instead of the serrated lemongrass they used in Par Vollen. It was a relief. He was sick of lemongrass.

Finally his bag’s almost stuffed, and he’s pulling the straps tight when there’s a knock at the door.

He rolls his eye. “Go away.”

“It’s me.”

Oh. That’s Fenris. Bull shoulders his pack and tries to swallow his temper, at least for now. Wouldn’t do to ruin a new friendship. He opens the door. “What’s up?”

Fenris is standing there with a full pack and a greatsword on his back. Fucker. Chargers must have sent him. “I heard you’re heading north,” he says.

“Yeah. Alone.” Bull tried to move past but Fenris stands there in his way, gazing up nonchalantly.

“I’ve been there before,” Fenris reminds him. “Several times, over the years. Under my former master.”

Bull hesitates.

“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” Fenris continues. “You’ll have a much better chance with an ally at your back. You know that. If you won’t take the Chargers, at least allow somebody with experience.”

He does know that. Going it alone on Seheron is a great way to get killed. And Fenris has been before, but not, like Krem, on a righteous campaign to root out the Qunari plague from his occupied homeland. He was a slave.

Bull hikes his pack higher on his shoulder and stalls for time, trying to think of an excuse to say no. “You seem pretty unconcerned about going back.”

Fenris shrugs. “I don’t expect to enjoy our time there, but I don’t mind the heat, and I fully intend to leave the politics to you.”

No excuse has presented itself. “Fine,” Bull mutters. If he has to go back, he might as well increase his chances of making it to Krem alive. And if anyone will survive Seheron, it’s the guy with a king’s ransom in lyrium etched into his body.

“Excellent,” Fenris says brightly. “Shall we?”

——

Fenris makes a strong effort but for several long minutes Bull practically carries him, an arm wrapped firmly around his waist. Meanwhile Fenris’s fingers are hooked in Bull’s dented armor, and he only just manages to put one foot in front of the other, dragging his feet through the soft, decaying leaf cover. Bull pushes forward despite the flashes of blue in the evening dark and Fenris’s low moans of pain. Keeps the river on his left and his eyes forward. Can’t know if those guys they killed have friends.

After a time the weight on the back of his armor lifts, and Fenris begins to straighten. “Better?” Bull asks.

“Yes,” Fenris replies. His brands flare again and he grimaces. Not that much better, then. Bull squints up at the canopy. Can’t make out the individual leaves anymore. They conspire in the dark, leaning in over him and hiding the sky. It’ll be night soon if it isn’t already.

“Follow me,” he says.

Fenris doesn’t ask questions, only follows. Bull tacks right and peers through the shadows as he walks. Doesn’t want to go too far. They need the river. Up ahead the ground slopes gently down. It’ll do. Fenris stumbles as they descend, tugging on Bull’s armor. Bull is faintly surprised to find himself nearly pulled off-balance. Damn, he’s tired.

They’ve been walking for over two days with hardly any rest. Walking and fighting. He’s done it before, and Fenris surely has as well. But it takes a toll.

“Let’s sit down for a minute,” Bull says and lowers himself to the ground, bringing Fenris with him.

Fenris does not protest but glances up. “Are you sure? We haven’t much time.”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Bull unships his spear and settles on the leaves. There’s a break in the trees above them, and beyond a hundred stars blanket the night sky. The moon balances on the treetops, yellow like a predator’s eye.

Damn. It’s later than he thought. They’d have had more room to breathe if not for the storm that struck them off the eastern coast of Tevinter, tossing the ship for almost two full days. Lost too much time. Leliana didn’t know when, exactly, the sweep would occur, only the date. Bull thinks he might make Betriti by daybreak. If they’re lucky, the Vints won’t be there yet, and he can get Krem and the elves out before the attacking force reaches the town. If they’re _really_ lucky the elves will have time to retreat and reinforce their position further east, where they’ll have an easier go of it holding ground against Tevinter.

Fenris sags against the slope, and his arm twitches once as a glimmer races through his brands. “Thank you for helping me out of there.”

“No problem,” Bull replies. He stretches his legs out. They’re pretty sore.

“I thought it was made-up,” Fenris says. “That Qunari resist blood magic. I expected it was yet another tale meant to frighten gullible foot soldiers into despising the Qunari even more. But you withstood her magic.”

Bull grunts. “I mean, it hurts pretty bad.”

“Mm. Most die.”

“Yeah. Well.” Bull folds his arms. Raw lines of burned skin ring his forearms from the mage’s spell, his armor having done nothing to protect them. “It’s human blood. I’m Qunari. Not the same.”

“What _are_ you, then?” Fenris asks, then a second later seems amused at himself. “I apologize. My exhaustion has ruined my manners.”

“No, it’s fine.” He glances down. “This is where you hear all the rumors, right? Vint commanders telling their guys we’re living darkspawn. Or the work of some mage who dealt with demons. Or that we walked out of the Void itself. Heard it all over the years. I laughed it off, but maybe I shouldn’t have. It’s not like I know any better. I’m seven and a half feet tall, I’m gray, I have horns. There’s a…”

He trails off. But where else is he going to talk about it? Where else but Seheron? “In Par Vollen they teach us that there’s madness inside every one of us. That the Qun is the only thing that can keep it in check.”

Fenris snorts. “A dubious theory. You clearly aren’t mad.”

“No. And neither are any of the Tal-Vashoth I met in the north. That was surprising to me, when I came down there, because it’s different on Seheron. When they lose the Qun, or it loses them—I mean, not all of them go mad. Some of them build their own settlements, or join up with the elves. But the rest.” He gazes up at the moon, and it gazes balefully back, peering down from beyond its treetop veil. “They’re cruel, and cunning. If you get sent to Seheron you already know how to kill and they kill.” Trying not to think about it. Tesaal and Uluri’s bodies left in a tangle of roots.

“Hm. Apologies if I overreach, but it seems to me less a form of inborn madness and more likely a result of learning that their entire life to that point has been a lie. A method of honing them into an unquestioning tool.”

Instinctively Bull wants to rise to the Qun’s defense. _It teaches belonging. Purpose. Certainty._ His fists ball, palms slippery with sweat. But he says nothing.

“I felt something similar, after my escape. A fury I could not contain. It took years to master it.” Fenris stretches his arms above his head cautiously, wincing as the lyrium flashes. “But you’ve avoided that fate. In fact, I’d venture to say you’re one of the more well-balanced people I’ve met since I reached Skyhold.”

Bull smiles at that. “Yeah, I guess. I think…to not go mad, you need something.” The only way he could make sense of it, over the years. “It doesn’t have to be the Qun, but you need something.”

“Mm. The Chargers.”

“Well, yeah. That’s part of it.”

“Part of it?”

The eyepatch is digging into his brow and Bull adjusts it, settling it over the empty socket. “I like caring for people,” he says quietly. “I liked it on Seheron. Shouldn’t have. It didn’t serve the Qun.”

There’s no reply for a moment, and Bull glances over to find Fenris watching him, chin resting on his hand. “You lived with the Seheron natives, isn’t that right?”

Bull looks away. “Wouldn’t called it ‘lived with.’ It was an occupation. Everyone knew it, on both sides, and we all pretended we didn’t.”

“I see. As I recall, the Tevinters employed a similar strategy.” Fenris pushes sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “Curious, as they aren’t terribly fond of elves.”

Bull frowns at the jungle floor. “Qunari weren’t that different. Lotta the guys didn’t think much of the elves. They were _bas._ Didn’t follow the Qun.”

Fenris sighs. “Not surprising, I suppose.”

“I didn’t think of them that way.” His frown deepens, his jaw tense. “Always found them to be regular people. That’s why I was so good at what I did.”

He hasn’t talked about it since he left twelve years ago. Thought if no one else knew about it, it might go away. That he could leave it all in the jungle. It did stay in the jungle, but the creeping vines still crawl up his limbs at night, and the canopy throws shadows over his eye.

Fenris says, “I apologize. I had not meant to pry.”

“No,” Bull says. “It’s fine. Probably just as you expect. You talk to them, get to know them. You’re friendly but not patronizing. No talk of conversion. Older elves usually didn’t fall for it. Been around too long. You could get the younger ones sometimes. You spend a lot of time together until they start to think maybe you’re the one. The _only_ good Qunari.” He shrugs one shoulder. “But to be Qunari is to serve the Qun. Eventually you use them, or betray them, or kill them because the Qun demands it. A lot of them aren’t surprised. The Qun doesn’t have room for exceptions. But some of them are blindsided, because you’re so good at your job. So good at…”

He can’t say it aloud, even though it was his name once. Instead Fenris finishes the thought— “Lying,” he says, with a prick of resentment in his voice. He likely has Seheron ancestry, of course. And what did the Qunari do here? What did Bull do?

“Yeah,” Bull mutters.

Fenris hisses and hugs himself. Sparks of light race around his brands like the blue-green swallows that used to flit through the marshy groves on the southern peninsula. Bull turns to him, unsure how to help. There probably isn’t a way. What is he supposed to do with lyrium? Fenris’s fingers are dug into his arms, his toes curled. A gleaming droplet of sweat trickles down his temple.

The sparks pass and he starts to relax. Clean lines of tension fade from his muscles, and his back straightens—lacking his usual grace, awkward from exhaustion and pain. Bull takes care with his words. He just pissed the guy off. “Getting worse, huh?”

Fenris hesitates but acknowledges the fact. “Yes. Too much hard use and not enough time to recover.”

“Sorry. Wish there were something I could do.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I chose to come here.”

Bull grunts. Can recognize when someone doesn’t want to talk about it. He settles back against the slope, sinking into the leaves and warm soil.

“It isn’t all that dissimilar, I think,” Fenris says. “The way you treated the Seheron natives, and the way I treated them.”

Bull looks up sharply. Fenris told him about the Fog Warriors by way of explaining his prior experience with the island. But it isn’t—

“You did not wish to hurt them,” Fenris continues, like he’s about to make anything close to a point, “but did so anyway because you were yourself lied to, by those to whom you were of use.”

“It’s not the same,” Bull growls. “I knew what I was doing from the beginning. Whole thing was a setup, start to finish. I never intended to make friends.”

“And yet you did, I would venture,” Fenris replies without missing a beat.

Bull runs a hand over his shaved skull. Of course he did. Every town, every time. He liked meeting new people, he liked getting to know them.

“Well, be as it may, we both escaped.” Then Fenris barks out a laugh. “And here we are back again.” He rises stiffly, brushing the earth from his armor. “We should be off. No time to waste.”

“Yeah, about that. You’re gonna get some rest.”

He’s met with silence and looks up to find Fenris’s eyebrow raised. “I beg your pardon? I won’t have your pity for my exhaustion. I’ve borne plenty of hardships, as you have.”

Should have chosen his words better. Fenris doesn’t like coddling. But Bull grins. “Fenris, you glow in the dark.”

Secrecy is paramount—they’re at the edges of Tevinter territory here but with just the two of them in their condition, they can’t afford much more resistance bursting out of the trees. And the blue glow of the brands will be like a beacon in the night. Fenris stares down for a moment; then he sits abruptly back where he was. “Fuck.”

Bull lets out a surprised laugh. “Yeah, pretty much. You think if you sleep they’ll be better?”

“I expect so, but surely we can’t afford to stay here much longer. We don’t know when Tevinter will launch their attack.”

“No. But I can carry you while I keep going,” he says. “Put you on my back, if you’re okay with it.”

Fenris regards Bull again, and from the look in his eye he’s gleaning some things Bull wishes he’d been able to keep to himself. Too late now. “Very well. If we are attacked, however, do not attempt to run, as—”

“I know, I know, I’ll wake you up.” Can’t outrun Tevinters through the jungle on his best day, and today’s not his best day. “Here, you’ll have to carry this.”

The spear-belt goes around Fenris’s chest, and they need to get creative with the straps to ensure it doesn’t slide off his narrow frame. But the spear locks in well next to his greatsword. As Fenris adjusts the belt, Bull looks down at himself, considering for a moment. Then he reaches under his arm and starts to unbuckle his breastplate.

It falls to the ground first, followed by his spaulders. Fenris watches with mild alarm. “Don’t you need that?”

“Nah, that mage fucked it up in the last fight. Won’t stop a blade anymore.” He strips the rest, leaving it in a pile on the ground. It lies there bent and twisted. Then he crouches and Fenris climbs onto his back, grasping his shoulders. Bull tucks his hands under Fenris’s knees and rises with a grunt. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“If the weight of one elf is too much for you, please, unburden yourself and I’ll walk.”

Bull grins into the dark. “Fuck off.” 

Back to the river. For a moment he thinks he’s lost it, and they’ll be stuck in the jungle forever, wandering through the clinging brush and the webs of vines until the Tevinters fall upon them and finish them off once and for all. But his ear picks up the rushing sound and he tacks left, finds the dark, turbulent water carving through the trees. Just a few hours more. With luck they’re too far at the fringes of Tevinter territory to draw out any more resistance.

Bull puts one foot in front of the other and walks.


	2. Chapter 2

They’re being followed.

The night closes in on all sides, and Bull clings to the moonlight that gleams on the river. The river is essential. Without the river the jungle will swallow them both up. Nobody is looking for them. Nobody here to help.

They’re being followed, too, which is bad. Bull’s instincts flutter at the back of his mind, a moth beating its wings inside a glass jar. It’s not any one thing but a handful of glimpses that hint at the truth of it. The crackle of a twig in the trees, and when Bull glances behind a shadow fading into shadows; the way the feeling dogs him, the hairs that stand up on the back of his neck. He isn’t sure why the pursuer hasn’t pounced yet. Maybe they just want to track him. Maybe they’re afraid of dying.

Bull tries not to think about it. Either they’ll come out to kill him or they won’t. He has miles to walk still, and plenty on his mind already.

——

_“Settling in all right?”_

_Hissrad looks up. There’s an elf standing over him with her arms folded, awaiting an answer. It’s an impossible question, of course. He’s an occupier and they both know it, no matter what tricks he uses to play it down._

_“Morning,” he replies. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Hissrad.”_

_He extends a hand. The elf’s expression eases, and she shakes. “Emru.”_

_“Nice to meet you.” He gestures to the stone surface beside him. “Have a seat.”_

_She sits, and the two of them gaze north over the endless expanse of ocean. The tide is low, and the surf worries at the wet sand below them, shying away from the brown, rocky wash. The seaweed is baking in the morning sun, and the scent of decay drifts up the beach on the breeze that ruffles the elf’s short, wavy hair. Up here the sand is dry and Hissrad works his toes into it bit by bit, curling and uncurling to bury them deeper. The warmth soothes his bare feet. He waits for Emru to talk. She came up to him for a reason._

_“What’s it like where you come from?” she asks. “You’re on an island too, right?”_

_He glances over. “Par Vollen? Yeah. It’s a lot bigger, though. And cooler, and drier.”_

_“Is it nice there? Did you like it?”_

_“Oh yeah. You leave the city, it’s beautiful. We got waterfalls two hundred feet high, and cliff that are red-orange like the sunset. Trees that stay huddled up all fall and winter but in spring they bloom pink and purple and white. Just covered in flowers. We got beaches, too. Rockier in most places, but it’s nice to walk along them and feel the surf wash over your feet.”_

_“Hm.” She nods thoughtfully. “You got beaches.”_

_“Yeah.”_

_“Then you got gulls that shit all over everything all the time too.”_

_“Yeah,” he admits._

_“Can’t be_ that _nice, then.”_

_“It’s pretty nice.”_

_“So why did you all sail down here and start bothering_ us?”

_“Honestly, that’s above my pay grade.” He works his toes into the sand. Bit by bit._

_Emru leans back on her hands. “Well, if you’re going to be sticking around, I figure I might as well try and get in early.”_

_“Get in early?”_

_“Yeah, you know. Approach the enemy, get in good with their leader. Maybe make him fall in love with me.” She glances over coyly. “Then when the hammer comes down, he won’t be able to bring himself to hurt me, and instead he’ll spirit us away to somewhere without any wars or fighting. Somewhere new.”_

_Hissrad heaves a sigh. “I don’t know where you think I’m gonna take you. Whole damn island’s surrounded by dreadnoughts. Or Vints.”_

_“So you can’t get me out of here?” Emru groans. “Great. Picked the wrong Qunari.”_

_“Hey now, don’t give up on me so fast.” He rests an indignant hand on his chest. “I’m a pretty smart guy, I could probably figure something out. Maybe.”_

_She raises an interested eyebrow. “So…you’re saying there’s a chance?”_

_They fuck that evening, which assures that one of them is going to die soon, probably in the next few months. She’s a spy, of course, and made hardly any effort to disguise it. Instead she offered him the same risk she herself took. They’ll fuck for a while and ease information out of each other, each giving up only what they think is wise. The gamble comes from what happens in between. She hopes that he’ll grow a little too fond of her, just enough to sway his judgement. To make him let on more than he should—and later, delay his decision to kill her until after she kills him first. He accepted the gamble because he hopes to do the very same thing to her._

_In the dark she sits up and stretches, then leans over and pats his bare stomach. “See you around,” she whispers. A minute later she’s gone. The trap is set. Now they each wait for the other to fall into it._

_——_

The ferns look like Emru’s hair.

They didn’t look like that before. But now the way the pinnae curl up looks just like her hair did, the way the little ringlets would crown the tips of her ears before she tucked them back with thin, agile fingers. Not Emru. Shouldn’t think about Emru. Something else. Anything else.

——

_“Help!”_

_Hissrad looks up, squinting ahead for the source of the cry._

_The sea is active today, the deep swells a challenge for his small fishing boat; it struggles with the fishing net slung over the stern. He lets out the mainsheet to slow the craft. There are rocks ahead, a spotty string of them forming a natural breakwater, and it wouldn’t do to crash a boat he’s only had for two weeks. The boom rotates out, and the sail starts to slacken._

_“Help!”_

_There. Clinging to one of the rocks, a small shape—no, two shapes, soaking wet. Hissrad’s eyes skim the surface of the water and immediately he lets go of the mainsheet. The boom swings out wide, and the sail luffs, flapping loudly in the steady wind. A break in the waves before the rocks. Conditions aren’t bad for it. Ocean floor is uneven here, close to shore, and the tide is going out. Riptide. “Fuck,” he mutters._

_“HELP!”_

_That’s a child’s voice, a young child. There’s no way he gets the boat in there. The thought crosses his mind that he should come up with a plan. But the rest of him doesn’t listen, and he yanks the mainsheet in again and shoves the tiller away from him. The boat tacks hard towards the shoreline and picks up speed. The tide’s gonna carry him pretty quick, so he needs a head start. Closer. Closer._

_The bow of the boat lurches starboard. Edge of the tide. Hissrad grabs the gunwale, heaves himself over the side and lands in the water with a splash._

_The tide picks him up, ferrying his body along at speed. “Keep shouting!” he manages, before the current pulls him between two spires of stone and sucks him underwater. Hissrad fights for the surface, spun half around when a rock bashes into his shoulder and chest, but he kicks his legs and finds air again._

_“HELP! Help us!”_

_Getting closer. Too fast. He kicks mightily for the center of the tide, colliding with rocks and grasping at them in desperation, his palms sliced bloody with barnacles. But it works, his muscles straining as he hauls himself around the stone pillars. Trajectory’s not bad now, if he doesn’t—_

_—get sucked under again, and as he thinks it the tide pulls him down into the glittering water. Fuck. He kicks—horn caught on a rock, face bashing into the coarse slab—free once more, and he gasps for air as he makes the surface—_

_“HELP!”_

_Right there. Hissrad knifes a hand through the current, wraps an arm around a rock. Just a few meters away he sees a pair of much skinnier arms wrapped around their own anchor. He can’t miss. Might not have the strength for another shot._

_He pushes off and kicks. Harder. Harder. Catches the rock, though the current yanks at him and scrapes off his skin. Hugging it close, he shakes water and blood out of his eyes to get a better look at the other passengers._

_Two elven children—two girls, one ten or twelve who holds on for dear life, the other much younger, perhaps five or six, clutching on to the first girl. How long have they been out here? They must have realized it’s dangerous to let go. While he and his thick Qunari skull can handle his face getting bashed in once or twice, the same can’t be said for the two children._

_“I’m gonna grab hold of you!” he shouts over the rushing water. “On three, take a deep breath!”_

_He edges closer around the rock. Has to let go with one arm to grab them, and his other burns with the strain of holding his big body where it is. But slowly, carefully, he pulls them into his chest. The older child seems reluctant to release her grip, although she withdraws her arms eventually._

_“One!” he shouts. “Two! Three!”_

_He sucks in a lungful of air and lets go._

_The riptide picks him up again, and in seconds it drags him under. More rocks out here. They batter his body, slamming into his back and sides, his folded-up legs, the back of his skull. He tries his best to curl up around the two children so they won’t get hurt._

_He breaks the surface, pulling the children up so they have a chance to breathe. Water slops over his face, and he shakes his head and fills his lungs before a hard collision with a jagged stone knocks the air from him again. He tries another breath and gets to keep it this time, one last coarse stone scraping along his bare foot before they’re past the breakwater and_ _out to sea._

_Not over. The shore is getting further and further away. Hissrad coughs up water. “Hold onto me,” he gasps._

_The children must be exhausted but they obey, inching around his body until the older one wraps her arms around his neck, and a small voice says, “Okay.”_

_He points himself towards shore and starts to swim._

_It’s harder at first because he has to orient himself diagonally so he doesn’t catch the edge of the riptide by accident and erase all his progress. The swells are hard to manage, too, although they carry him in the right direction, and he spends most of his energy staying afloat with the extra weight on his back. Ocean water washes into his mouth and he spits it out as he tries not to choke. A lot of him hurts, although he can’t really tell what’s what right now. Bruises, definitely, and open wounds that sting with salt. Doesn’t matter anyway. Can’t do anything about it ’til he’s ashore._

_After several long, tense minutes, his toes find the soft sand of the sea floor and he can begin to walk, to drag himself through the water, fighting the swells that knock him off balance. When the water is shallow enough he crawls, and the children slip off his back; they go beside him and crawl as well onto the shore._

_At last he pulls himself from the surf and kneels in the damp sand, wiping blood and salt from his eyes. The two girls are next to him and the younger one coughs and then throws up. The older one seems barely able to sit upright but hugs the younger. Up close he can see that the riptide got her as well; there’s a long, rough scrape on her arm and sticky blood on her temple._

_“Are you all right?” he asks hoarsely._

_The King’s tongue; anyone who lives here speaks it by now, or they should, but the older girl looks up sharply and watches him with a mixture of fear and resentment. He tries again in Seheron, reflexively messing up a tense to disguise his fluency._

_“Go away!” the girl shouts, in the King’s tongue._

_So she understands. A pretty sensible response, honestly. He’s Qunari. Still. “Are you hurt?” he asks. “Do you need help? Where do you live?”_

_“I’m not telling you where we live!”_

_Oh._

_The Qunari and Tevinter don’t occupy the whole island. Some territory is harder to explore, let alone control—the wetlands to the northeast, for one, and the mountainous jungle at the center of the island. The terrain is difficult to overcome, and the resistance fierce. But if they knew where a population center was—if they had a foothold, that might make things a good deal easier._

_All of which he processes in a half-second and puts away just as quickly. He came out here to fish. “It’s okay.” He raises a hand to reassure her. “You don’t have to tell me where…oh, fuck,” he mumbles._

_Something hurts real bad, more than the rest of him. He raises the arm higher and takes a look._

_There’s a nasty gash in his side, wrapping all the way around to his back. Really nasty. One of those rocks ripped him open deep, and in the flesh spilling out of the tear he sees finely lobulated fat. Blood pours out of the base and he can’t tell if it got to muscle. He presses a hand to it as if that’ll help and holds back another curse. Shouldn’t swear in front of kids, he thinks distantly. The hand doesn’t help. Wound’s soaked in salt water._

_In Seheron the smaller girl says quietly, “He got hurt.”_

_The older girl responds, “Who cares?!” and pulls the younger to her feet, tries to drag her to the treeline. But she was treading water for what must have been a long time and stumbles and falls halfway up the beach._

_“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Hissrad tries again. “I just wanna—I can make splints, I have thread for stitches—“_

_“GO AWAY!” the older child shouts again._

_In stops and starts they make the treeline. The younger girl looks back at him the whole way, until the two of them disappear into the jungle. Hissrad curls up, breathing hard through his nose to dampen the pain. Riptide beat the shit out of him, and his boat’s gone. It’s gonna be a long, long walk back to town._

_——_

Why is he here?

His boots sink into the soft earth, and he holds the river at his left side. Too close at times, and he must catch his balance right away as the earth begins to give beneath him. But he doesn’t fall, not yet. His legs are getting stiff now. Too long without rest. For now he can keep going. Will that last? Can it?

He’s still pretty sure they’re being followed. Rustling behind him, on the right, then a pause. Then on the right again. It must be a pursuer, yet the dark is their ally, not his, and his eye cannot catch them when he looks back. No use searching. The only thing he’s strong enough to do is walk.

Why is he here?

Everyone keeps sending him to Seheron thinking they’re going to change something. The Qunari thinking they’d bring the Qun to the north. Now the Inquisition thinking they’ll create peace. It’s all horseshit. He should have figured it out earlier, when he was young. He’s a smart guy. Could have put the pieces together. All the Vints he killed, all the elves and the Tal-Vashoth. The territory he captured, the resources he stole. Every time he’d complete an assignment successfully his commanders would praise him, his efficiency, his innovation, his acumen. He was _good._ And the next day everything was exactly the fucking same as it had been before he killed anyone. Why is he here? The Qun has more at its disposal than the Inquisition ever will. _Is_ more. And it never changed a fucking thing.

Fenris shifts on his back and lets out a long, sleepy sigh. His breath warms the nape of Bull’s neck.

All right. He can do that. He can protect Fenris from whoever’s following them and get him off this damn island. And he can get Krem out too before the Vints come in to kill him. Bull’s arms are beginning to cramp a little from carrying around a very muscular elf but it doesn’t matter. Fenris’s weight on his back is comfort so potent Bull finds himself saying to no one in particular, “It’s okay.” Shouldn’t do that in case the rumble in his chest wakes Fenris. “It’s okay,” he murmurs.

It’s okay.

——

_It’s been a few months, and they’re both still alive._

_They do the dance. Hissrad waits for something to change—no, to see the change coming, to peer at the twist or turn up ahead and spot the shadow of what waits beyond. It isn’t there, not yet._

_But it’s getting harder to see. It’s like the sun is setting on him and dusk settles in on all sides in shades of purple and warm brown. It’s getting harder to see what lies ahead._

_Emru is kissing him. She smiled wickedly as she often does, and he’s memorized the shape of it by now, the way her lips split around her teeth, just a little lopsided to the left. Then she kissed him and stopped his breath in his chest for just a moment. Her lips know his, and the reverse is true as well. Dusk has settled in around them, and a cool breeze blows off the sea and winds in through the window. They’re kissing still and she hasn’t put her hand on his trousers, and he hasn’t grabbed her ass. They’re kissing._

_Then the press of her chest vanishes from his and she sags on his lap._

_It’s most remarkable because it’s decidedly unsexy. She’s normally deliberate with her body, and he can spot the minute adjustments she makes whenever his eyes fall upon her. He does the same, of course, always striving to maintain his position in the balance of power. But there’s no such thing now._ Something wrong? _he should say._

_“Are you okay?” he asks gently._

_She heaves a sigh and straightens, then climbs off of his lap. “Sorry. I’m not up for this tonight.”_

_His hands fall from her with a reluctance that shouldn’t be there. Not after she’s called off their usual carefully orchestrated tryst. “Uh—okay.”_ Good night, _he should tell her. He doesn’t. Instead she lingers by the door. Maybe she’s waiting for him to say goodbye. Expecting it. She isn’t saying it either. The wind sings outside, and in the purple dusk she folds her arms and stares at the floor._

_Finally she asks, “Do you want to go sit on the beach?”_

_“Yeah,” he replies._

_He follows her out the door._

_They walk down the shore for a bit, until the houses fall away and it’s just the two of them under the twilight with the surf, calmer now in the evening, attending their passage. Emru finds a flat rock to sit on, and she stretches her legs out as Hissrad sits beside her. They gaze out at the sea, deep blue-black under the darkening sky, although the moon is nearly full and the chop glimmers all the way out, almost as far as he can see._

_“You got a name?” Emru asks._

_He looks down, surprised. He’d expected that question earlier but thought she’d skipped over it, felt it wasn’t worth the effort. She must have asked it many times before. “Yeah,” he answers. “Hissrad.”_

_She rolls her eyes. “That’s not a name, that’s a role.”_

_“It’s the same thing,” he says._

_Emru lets out a quiet “Ugh,” but doesn’t pursue the question any further._

_They lapse into silence again. Hissrad glances over to gauge what’s going on with her. She watches the sea with a stony frown. He glances over again. Once more. In the past he’s grown intimately familiar with her face, the deep set of her eyes and the contour of her nose and cheeks, her thin, expressive lips. The seams and lines that have never been so pronounced as they are now, with the way she stares out over the ocean._

_Hissrad forces himself to sit forward and face the water. He curls and uncurls his toes, working them into the sand bit by bit._

_Emru speaks abruptly. “Remember when I first came up to you and asked if you could spirit us away to somewhere new? With no wars or fighting?”_

_“Yeah,” he replies. Digs his toes in deeper._

_She laughs, an ugly snort of a laugh. “What a stupid line.”_

_“It wasn’t that stupid,” Hissrad says. Can’t stop himself._

_She rolls her eyes again. “It was pretty fucking stupid.”_

_Then she leans over until her shoulder rests on his. Can’t stop himself. He wraps an arm around her. Her warm, thin body. She stays there, tucked against his side, as the moon rises higher in the sky. He works his toes into the sand, little by little until they’re dug in so deep he can’t see them anymore._

_Emru’s breathing slows, the rise of her back against his arm. Hissrad gazes out over the open sea, to the north where no one much has been and the maps get sketchy and vague. Wonders what’s really out there and if he might see it one day. But it’s not an open sea, of course. In the far distance a dreadnought chugs by, its black silhouette breaking the liminal seam of the horizon._

_Emru stirs, scooting closer. He pulls her in, and one small hand comes to rest on his thigh. He thinks of waking her, of suggesting they return to town. But he doesn’t. Instead he listens to the soft, steady sound of her breathing as the twilight descends over them both._

_——_

Not Emru. Not Emru. Think of something else. Not Emru.

——

_A couple of the guys don’t completely buy his story that he didn’t see the riptide before he got sucked under. But they don’t bother him about it, and after a week or so he’s healed up enough to make another fishing trip._

_It wasn’t the first time he’d been to that spot, when he found the two kids clinging to the rock. But he’d never seen them before. So he goes early this time, putting out to sea just after dawn and heading down the shore. It’s a bit of a journey to the cove, but he makes good time, and sure enough when he arrives there’s another boat there, crewed by two children with lines cast. Two girls._

_Hissrad points his boat toward them, letting out the sail a bit so he doesn’t approach so fast. He puts up a hand and waves._

_They spot him quickly. The older girl hauls in the mainsheet, and as the sail tautens she shouts, “GO AWAY!” But the younger girl has the tiller and she pulls it all the way toward her. Their boat abruptly starts to make an about-face, and the older girl has to grab the tiller to put it back on course again, away from Hissrad._

_“I just wanted to say hi!” he calls, and hastily tosses the anchor over the side. Brought a net, but he has a line too, so he can sit right here. Hopefully not scare them off._

_They make speed away across the cove. Hissrad sighs. Worth a shot. He casts his line and slowly starts to pull it in. Spot’s good for fishing, anyways. So he’ll get something out of the trip._

_From the corner of his eye a shape approaches. He looks up. It’s their sailboat. The older girl has the sheet and tiller both now, and she slows as she approaches, calling over the water, “What are you doing here?”_

_“Fishing,” he calls back. “Good spot for it.”_

_Too close for comfort now, she tacks skillfully, she and the other girl ducking under the boom. “We’re not gonna tell you where we live!”_

_“I know. That’s okay,” he replies, and nods at them. “That boat’s made for a net. You lose yours in the riptide?”_

_There’s a notch in the transom for a net to be towed behind. The girl looks over sharply, then back to him. “None of your business!”_

_“Here.” He picks up his own net. “Take this one. I’ve got extras.”_

_The girl lets the sail luff, and the boat slows, although it doesn’t change direction. The younger calls out, “Our mum’s making another one at home!”_

_The older hushes her. Sisters, then. “This one’s ready to go. Lot faster than a line,” Hissrad says, and then, “It’s just a net.”_

_A moment’s pause. Then the older sister pulls in the mainsheet and the boat draws closer. “Throw it over!”_

_The net is Qunari make, of sturdy rope. It’s heavy, but he’s strong and nearly recovered and lands it over the side of their craft. The younger sister inspects it, and the older guides them away. But she hesitates, and looks over her shoulder. “Thank you!”_

_“Ah.” He waves a hand. “We got a half-dozen of ‘em back in town.”_

_“No, for—for saving us!” Without waiting for a response, she jibes, speeding away downwind._

_That went better than he expected. Hissrad watches over his line, sitting just where he is in the water. The sisters try out their new net, sailing around the cove. When they get close enough the younger waves at him, and he waves back with a grin. By late morning they depart, and he’s got a good bucket of fish so he pulls up anchor too. Time to head back._

_——_

Bull tries to pick up the pace, but it’s getting pretty fucking hard. He needs sleep. At the very least he needs to stop. But he can’t, because he’s got a pursuer. (He thinks—hasn’t been able to spot them, or pick out their footsteps in the sounds of the jungle at night, but they must be there. He has to trust his instinct.)

It might not matter. His body is tired. Real tired.

Bull hears the tapping on the waxy leaves above him a moment before he feels it—droplets of rain that fall on the top of his head and trickle down the seams in his brow. He glances up briefly and does not slow. The rain will make it harder to hear whoever’s following them. Maybe they’ll use its cover to close in. Maybe they’ll finally attack. He’s too stiff to react quickly, too tired to put up a fight. They’d get him, no doubt about it. Probably Fenris too—

A disgruntled sound from his back. “It’s raining.”

Fenris. Bull grins. “No it’s not.”

“You don’t feel that?”

“Well, yeah. But compared to what’s coming…this isn’t rain.”

A sigh, warm breath on his skin. “Of course. It is the season for it.”

It’s a good thing overall, Bull decides. The monsoon will overtake the island in a matter of hours. Tevinter to the south sees that kind of rain now and then, but not as regularly as Seheron gets it, and not as bad either. It should give the elves a leg up in the attack. “How are you feeling?” Bull asks.

“Better,” Fenris answers. “I can walk on my own.”

His brands betray him even as he finishes his sentence, the glow less livid now but blue and bright all the same. Little raindrops catch the unnatural light, glittering like stars. “It’s okay,” Bull says. “Take it easy. We’re not far.” That’s a guess; still, it has to be true. He’s been walking for a long time.

The glow fades. Fenris settles on Bull’s back, cheek resting on his shoulder. “Thank you,” he says. “For carrying me. I was…in pain.”

“Hey, no worries. I don’t mind.” Bull leaves it at that. What else is he supposed to say? _Carrying you might be the only thing keeping me sane right now?_ He lets Fenris drift off again. The drizzle grows steadier, but it isn’t very heavy, not yet. His ear catches a brittle patter behind him. The pursuer’s footsteps, maybe. Or maybe it’s just the rain.

——

_The older girl’s name is Anm, and her little sister is Nee-em, Nee for short._

_Hissrad doesn’t really know why he keeps leaving at the crack of dawn to maximize his chance of running into them, rather than sleeping in a bit and just heading out later. It’s not as if he’s getting anything out of them. They’re twelve and six, respectively. Not Fog Warriors, not strategists or spies. They’re fishers. That could be the reason. His latest assignment is pretty quiet, so he’s taken to fishing to prove his worth to the locals (rather, to deceive them into it, although for the moment he lacks an ulterior motive so all he’s really doing is bringing them lots and lots of fish)._

_Anm gets tired of yelling at him to go away. His spot at the edge of the cove isn’t the most productive of locations so he asks advice for a better place. Nee-em starts pointing some out and Anm eventually, reluctantly, joins in. He sticks to line fishing for a time, figuring if he stays in one place they won’t get so nervous. But they get comfortable quickly, so he starts towing a net again and Anm doesn’t yell at him for it._

_One day when the wind is strong he comes up quick behind them and shoots past, shouting out, “Race you to the end of the breakwater!”_

_A squeal of delighted laughter. Nee. A second later Anm’s surprised, “What are you doing?!”_

_He spares a glance behind him. Nee’s got the mainsheet clutched in her hands with one foot on the tiller. Anm is trying to control her, and the boat slows for a moment; Hissrad lets out the sail a bit, waiting. Then their boat picks up speed again and he hauls in the sheet and they’re off._

_His boat’s not as fast. It’s Qunari make and the material is heavy, the hull not so well designed. Anm and Nee catch up quick and for a few heart-pounding moments they slice through the water beside each other, until the sisters fly past him and the spray from their coursing craft coats him in salt water. They beat him handily._

_After that things aren’t so tense. One day it starts pouring while they’re out so they head for shore, and the girls hide under a hook of rock while Hissrad makes do with the treeline. It doesn’t work anywhere near as well, but after a few minutes Nee appears in the sheets of rain and beckons him. The space is a lot more cramped with his big body stuffed in there but it’s much drier. Nee is talkative and asks him plenty of questions, which he does his best to answer—things about Par Vollen and Qunari. She talks about herself and her family. She and Anm have a baby brother as well, only a few months old. Their father makes a lot of funny jokes and has just started getting gray hairs. Sometimes she gets a little too close to revealing where they live and Anm shushes her hastily. Nee tells him a few of the jokes she heard from her father and he has to admit, they’re pretty funny. He offers a few of his own in return. Nee likes them but Anm groans at every one._

_He gets no new orders from his commanders. Just a holding pattern. The town they’re occupying sits at a critical location, so they need to hold it. But there’s nobody trying to take it, at least not now. Most mornings he sails down the coast to fish, and most days he finds Anm and Nee there too. They race a lot, and even Nee at skipper beats him without much trouble at all. On one occasion he laments it afterward, embarrassed by his poor performance. Anm suggests it’s because he’s too big, and maybe if he doesn’t eat so many fish he might have a chance. He counters that she’s so skinny that the first time they met he almost mistook her for a stickbug. Nee shrieks with laughter, and Anm has a new nickname._

_What is he doing?_

_He looks forward to it every day. Doesn’t mind getting out of bed when it’s dark, or going out when the weather’s bad. Not the best idea; his Qunari sailboat doesn’t handle the sea so well when the wind howls over the water. One morning the wind is strong, carrying spits of rain, and even his huge body hiked over the side won’t counterbalance the force of the it. A miscalculation on his part. The boat capsizes, the sail slapping into the water and Hissrad following shortly after._

_He’s working the sail down the mast when the sisters draw up. “Don’t worry about me,” he calls. “I can flip it.”_

_Anm stands briefly, peering around his boat. “Have you ever flipped it before?”_

_“No, but I know what to do. Gotta get around to the keel.”_

_“It won’t work. You’re too big, if you stand on the keel it’ll break.”_

_He taps the side of the boat. “This thing’s sturdy, she’ll be fine.”_

_“I don’t think so!” She jibes, and she and Nee duck the boom as the boat swivels. “Let me do it!”_

_“No, I don’t want you to get swept away!” He jerks his head. “Seas are rough today!”_

_They are indeed. A nasty storm is on its way, and he should work fast. The sail goes down pretty quick—the boat doesn’t turtle, which is lucky—and then Hissrad gets around to the algae-encrusted hull. The keel sticks out like a fin. It’s Qunari make and should hold him, although looking at it up close, his confidence starts to falter. Still, he’s got to try. He hooks his arms around the keel and kicks, dragging himself up onto the smooth surface. An alarming creak comes from the joint where it meets the hull. Fuck._

_The mast starts to rise, but the boat doesn’t come up fast enough before the keel snaps, dumping Hissrad into the water again. No use keeping at it. Without the keel, there’s no way the boat’ll stay on course. He grabs on to the hanging rudder before he drifts away, looking up and searching for shore to see how far he needs to swim. While he was working, the wind and the water have pushed him out to sea. It’s pretty damn far._

_Anm and Nee approach, their sail luffing. Nee skippers while Anm leans over the side with an arm extended. “Get in!”_

_“Are you kidding?” he replies. “I won’t fit!”_

_She glances back at her boat. It’s true. She and Nee aren’t very big, but neither is their craft. Then: “We’ll tow you!” she says. “Grab on to the side!”_

_A particularly high wave breaks over their bow, and she picks up a bucket and starts to bail the boat out. Dangerous out here. They need to get back to shore. “Fine!” he says, and grabs on._

_Nee turns them around and points toward land. Anm sets the bucket down and with skilled hands lashes his arm to a cleat, in case he loses his grip. The going is slow; Nee is careful of the conditions, and his big body makes it harder for her to steer. But she’s plainly been taught well because they make the shallows without capsizing, and with Hissrad still attached to the side._

_Anm unties him and he finds the soft sand with his feet, fights to keep his balance in the stormy water. The shore is close—just a few yards away, and soon he’s struggling onto the beach, standing and brushing the sand from his legs. It takes the sisters some maneuvering but they pull the keel and rudder up and hop into the water, dragging the boat up onto the shore. Nee runs up and wraps her arms around his middle. She’s barely tall enough to reach, and his belly’s too big for her hands to meet in the back._

_What is he doing?_

_Anm comes up with her hands clasped shyly behind her back. Hissrad returns Nee’s hug and thinks to himself,_ You should have let me drown.

_Anm offers to sail him a bit further down the coast so the walk isn’t so long. He thanks her but declines. The walk is quite long, but it’s good. He’s been failing himself these past months, sailing out here at the crack of dawn to fish and joke and get in boat races. It does not serve the Qun. Fortunately, he’s an experienced spy and a skilled improviser. He can fix this._

_Opportunity presents itself just a couple of weeks later. The girls’ sail tears while they’re taking it down, and Hissrad offers to repair it, having a kit in his own craft. Nee volunteers to sit on the sail as he works so it doesn’t fly away, while Anm takes the opportunity to scrub the hull of seaweed. She heads down to the shoreline to work._

_Hissrad brings the sail higher up on the beach, then a little higher. Wouldn’t do to be in earshot. “Here, this should be flat enough,” he says, and lays out the sail. Nee plops herself down on top of it and plants her sandaled feet on the edges of the tear._

_“How old are you now?” he asks. “Five, is that right?”_

_“I’m six!” she says indignantly._

_“Hm.” He raises a skeptical, teasing eyebrow. “I don’t know…you kinda look five to me.”_

_“I’m six! I’m almost seven!” Nee insists._

_“Uh-huh.” He nods down at the shoreline where Anm is hard at work. “I bet you can’t tell me what all the parts of your boat are called.”_

_“Yes I can! The tall thing is the mast—“ she points, “—and it has the boom on it, and it holds the sail and the boom is attached to the sheet—“_

_She continues, listing with speed the anatomy of her boat. Hissrad lets on that he’s a little—just a little—impressed, but he regains his skepticism quickly, still stitching. “Okay, you know the boat. But I bet you don’t know the jungle. I bet Anm has to hold your hand the whole time when you go home, because you don’t know the way and you’d get lost without her.”_

_“That’s not true! I can get back by myself!”_

_“Oh yeah? I’m not sure I believe you.”_

_“Yes I can! You sail more down the beach, until you see the tree that fell into the water and that’s where you put the boat ’til you come back tomorrow—“_

_It’s not as good as a map but Hissrad commits it to memory, his hands still stitching the rough cloth of the sail. Should be enough to put a scout in the general vicinity. When she’s finished he concedes that fine, she is six after all, and even almost seven._

_He departs in the early afternoon, turning once to wave goodbye and then facing down the coast to head home. He writes the report and submits it as soon as he returns, and he never goes back to the cove again. Nor does he ask what comes of the intel. On Seheron the Qunari almost never use violence as a first resort, but they don’t need violence to ruin a settlement._

_Instead he wakes up early in the mornings and sails the other way up the coast. There’s another fishing spot there, not as good as the cove. But it’s quiet. The only people he sees there are from the same town where he’s stationed, and they usually don’t come until later in the day. Most of the time he tows a net across the water, or he drops anchor and throws a line, and no one else comes by to wave or shout hello or challenge him to a boat race to the end of the breakwater. Most of the time he remains completely and blessedly alone._

_——_

The waterfall.

He hears it over the rain, from far off, the low rush and the distant, thundering echo where it spills over the cliff and batters the rock face until it plunges down into the pool far below. The waterfall. That means they’re close, very close. Bull spares a glance over his shoulder and up into the trees. Is the pursuer there? Might he finally catch sight of them, so close to their destination?

The trees break and before him slippery rock juts out into the night, wet with the spray from the fast-rushing river. He takes careful steps, mindful of Fenris’s weight on his back. His thighs shake with exhaustion, and it’s hard not to slip and fall. So he takes careful steps, one and then the next, and draws closer to where the rock falls away into the night sky.

But the sky isn’t so black as it was when he followed the river. Bull faces east, and past the jungle on the horizon he sees the intimations of a warm orange-brown, where the sun breathes in the darkness and exhales dawn.

This would be the perfect time, he thinks to himself, for their pursuer to attack. He’s never been more tired than he is now, and he stands on the slippery rock at the edge of a cliff where a single shove could send him and Fenris plummeting to their deaths. It would be the perfect time for the long hunt to finally end. Bull gazes out at the welling dawn and waits.

——

_Emru shows up again a couple of nights later and doesn’t mention it, and he doesn’t ask. Instead she brings two cups and a bottle of moonshine and Hissrad lets her inside with a grin._

_It’s strong-tasting stuff and neither of them drink much, but they don’t need to; all they need is the routine, some spirits to sip while they talk about their respective days. Emru isn’t performing so much today, sliding into a graceless slouch in her chair. Hissrad’s legs are splayed out in an inelegant sprawl, propped up on the bed. Emru makes a rude joke and he has to put down his cup to cover his face while he chuckles._

_The conversation dies, and then her lidded eyes meet his while she swirls her half-empty cup. He knows her so well by now that she doesn’t even need to say anything._ I’m here, so we might as well fuck, right? _He meets her coy smile with one of his own._

_She rises slowly, assuming her usual grace once again, and crosses to the window. For a moment she leans there as the wind ruffles her hair; then she closes the shutters, hiding them from the outside world._

_Hissrad rises. “Emru.”_

_When she turns he wraps his hand around her neck._

_He’s a lot bigger than she is so it’s easy to put her on the ground, and he goes with her, kneeling over her body. She fights him, but just for a brief moment, as if it’s only a reflex that she masters quickly. Makes sense. She only has a few seconds of consciousness left, so it doesn’t matter much whether she fights or not._

_“I—messed up,” she rasps. Her hand rests over his._

_Hissrad watches her eyes lose focus and slide shut. He kneels there for several minutes longer, until he’s sure her brain is starved of blood and the tortured pulse against his thumb ceases at last. When he releases her neck the air is cool on his palm, although his whole body has broken out in a sweat. It had to be today. After their evening on the beach a couple of nights ago, there was no way he could keep this going. Counts himself lucky she didn’t get to him first. He thinks again of her warm body tucked against his side in the twilight, how quickly she fell asleep against him._

_There was no way._

_He goes through her clothes, rolling her body over. Nothing much of interest. No notes or messages. Hissrad clenches his jaw. He feels sick. There, in her boot. A knife. Well-worn, and probably one she carries around everywhere (or carried)._

_Hissrad plants a hand on the floor, clutching his gut. His body is slick with sweat, and his stomach is killing him._

_Fuck. She poisoned him._

_He rams his fingers down his throat and gags, jams them in deeper and harder until his gags turn into something productive and he throws up at last. Hopes it’ll be enough. From how he feels he’s already absorbed a pretty good dose. The shaking is next, his whole body wracked by rigors so intense he collapses to the floor face-first, horn-ridge smearing in his own vomitus. Feels like he wants to throw up again. Fuck. Can’t do that. This house is flanked on both sides by elven families. If they hear him being sick they might come investigate and he’s shaking so hard he can’t even stand. It would be trivial even for a child to pick up Emru’s knife and put it through his neck._

_The poison continues to ravage him. His sinuses fill with mucus that slides down his throat, and he coughs it up when he must, choking on it when the spit makes it slippery. At some point piss leaks out of him and soaks his trousers. Hissrad realizes that he might die tonight. The poison is potent, certainly enough to kill him. Only depends on how much he got. Tears pour from his eyes, so much so his eyelashes crust with salt._

_He shakes and throws up a bit more. It seems like an age passes between his heartbeats, each contraction of the stricken muscle another paroxysm of desperation. Another wretched bid to stay alive. The minutes wear on, and the hours, it must be, the house and Emru’s dead body cooling by degrees. The shakes dull to a tremble though his strength does not return. Acid-tasting saliva runs from the corner of his mouth and squelches under his cheek._

_When his guys find him in the late morning, lying on the floor in his own mucus and vomitus and piss, he’s survived the worst of it. They have to carry him out because he can’t stand up. It’s days before he can walk again. As soon as he’s able he requests a transfer to a different town, and it’s granted._

“I—messed up.”

_Hissrad thinks about it as he gazes out at the sea, from the southern shore this time. He knows what’s across the water from here—Tevinter, his enemy. A known quantity. He rises and brushes the sand from his trousers. He’s no good with gambles. May be best to stick with hard, bloody work from now on._

_——_

Bull stands at the edge of the cliff for several long minutes while the drizzle falls upon him and raindrops trace the rim of his eyepatch on their way down his face. He stands at the edge of the cliff and watches the infinitesimal advance of the sun, the warming of the predawn sky.

Nobody appears from the trees to kill him. Nobody at all.

After a time he turns left and starts to pick his way down the rocky slope. Spotted Betriti from his vantage point—not far off, if he can make it to the base of the cliff. Perhaps the hardest challenge yet. The journey is downhill, but the difficulty lies in keeping his legs from buckling and sending the two of them rolling down in a broken mess to the bottom.

After the Tal-Vashoth murdered Tesaal and Uluri and the rest of the village, after he went berserk and killed them all, after he turned himself in, he told one more lie to the re-educators. He was such a good liar that they never found out, because if they had they would have pumped him full of qamek to wither his brain and turned him into a big, stupid source of hard labor. It was a lie by omission; he told them part of the truth, which was that he went berserk and killed all the Tal-Vashoth and the sight and feel and smell of blood drove him into a frenzy that felt _right._ Like it was what he was built for and what he should have been doing along. He told them that.

He didn’t tell them that after the fighting he knelt among the corpses and wept. As the sobs shook his body a moment of intense clarity pierced his bruised mind, in which he realized that the Qun was meaningless and always had been. He finally understood that there was no reason for him nor any of the Qunari to be on this ill-fated island, and all the pain, all the sorrow passed by completely unknown to those who had ordered him here. That in almost ten years he had accomplished nothing but the enforcement of suffering on those who had the same senseless misfortune as he to be caught up in this unending war.

The moment vanished well before his guys found him, and he kept it to himself from then on. Maybe that’s why the re-education didn’t stick. Bull makes poor time on his way down the slope, but it’s better than falling. Betriti isn’t far now, and he’s close to getting off this damn island again. Once and for all.


End file.
